


Renaissance

by E_J_Morgan



Series: Q-niverse AU [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Q is a Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:04:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_J_Morgan/pseuds/E_J_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q-niverse AU - When Benedict Dominic Holmes, the third and youngest Holmes brother was 12, he'd just about had enough of living under the influence of Mycroft. He went and got himself a job by MI6, faked his own death and disappeared. Now that he's 14 and emancipated, he thinks it may be time to seek out his brothers again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renaissance

**Author's Note:**

> An event previously mentioned a lot in my other fics of the 'Q-niverse', here explored to the detail.

Fourteen-year-old Benedict Dominic Holmes had made a serious, life-altering decision: after over a year of total absence and silence from him he was now finally going to seek out his two older brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock, and reveal himself to them as being alive.

 

Of course, normally this was not a fact the family members were not aware of but in this aspect – just like in any others, to tell the truth – Benedict was everything but normal: he was a young teenager legally considered an adult who had just brought an own London flat without loan or help from anyone to finally begin his absolutely independent, adult life.

 

He had made the money on his own from a very young age (around three years old), starting with testing and developing security systems for very rich and influential companies and occasionally different governments as well, participating in super-secret hi-tech projects as advisor since he was ten, selling own programs during all his childhood under various aliases and in the last 1,5 years working for MI6 as a member of the so-called ‘Q-Branch’ that specialized in creating weapons and any kind of equipment for field agents and had a big role in handling missions as well as guiding said agents through theirs tasks.

 

His numerous private clients had of course no idea that their specialist was only a child who for all intends and purposes should still be in school, not part of one of the most powerful organizations of the world. They only knew they had the best hacker, known as ‘Shadow’ who was famous for being able to do anything and everything with a computer, and had been operating for many years without failure now, working for them. In Benedict’s opinion that’s all they needed to know and no other hacker would have given any more personal data anyway. As long as they were willing to pay his admittedly enormous fees, it was all fine with him and if they were all satisfied with his results then they shouldn’t complain about not knowing him personally. It’s not that he wasn’t used to pretend to be someone else than he really was.

 

So thanks to all these and some other private jobs over the years, the boy now possessed a small fortune which he – as an emancipated teen – was able to fully access and utilize as he saw it fit. But being one of the wealthiest persons in England (and probably the whole world) didn’t really have any significance to the young teenager at all.

 

Growing up with just his two (much) older brothers, after losing his parents at the age of two, had been hard on the boy. Mycroft, who was 26 years his senior, held a ‘minor’ position in the Government (meaning that he WAS the Government himself) and had a bit of megalomania… Actually, he thought he had to have control over everything on the whole world, starting with his two younger brothers’ lives.

 

Deciding that the civil world was not good enough for Holmeses he had made it his task to see to the education of his siblings himself, and keep them well tucked away from the society, out of the range of ‘bad influence’ from stupid, slow and inadequate people.

 

He hadn’t had much success with Sherlock, who was already 21 when their parents died and had immediately declared in a no-nonsense way that Mycroft was to leave him alone with his meddling. As a protest against the oldest Holmes’ attempts to sabotage his freedom, he had fled into the shadowy world of drugs, alcohol, sleeping on the floor of empty warehouses in a drunken stupor and generally just spiraling down into a total self-destruction.

 

That had left Benedict alone with his oldest brother who had sworn to prevent him from following Sherlock’s ways; a promise that made him even more determined to do what was – in his opinion – the best for the little orphan boy. And that was keeping him to himself, out of harm’s way.

 

Benedict hadn’t agreed to this kind of life of course but – being only two at the time it had started – he had necessarily chosen a different type of protestation against it than the middle Holmes boy by pretending to be satisfied, all the while working in secret (and let’s just mention at that point that it hadn’t been easy to keep it from Mycroft, the master of observation, for so many years), saving all the money he had earned the whole time on different bank accounts (all under false names) in various countries and preparing his escape with the best of timing.

 

That time came when Benedict was 12. He had been planning it for years, (mostly) patiently waiting for the appropriate opportunity to arise.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q - Q**

 

_1,5 years ago_

 

That was it! The ultimate chance to leave this miserable, caged-in life behind and finally being able to live freely, just like he had wished all the time since his parents had died.

 

Benedict sat in front of his computer in his room in Holmes manor, and was looking intently at the screen. Oh, how long had he been working for this! It was here, black and white: the most secret and best protected system of MI6; the only organization in whole Great Britain that wasn’t (totally) under Mycroft’s surveillance. The only place to run to as Benedict saw it.

 

He pressed a button and waited. The system started to search, trying to identify the intruder and after a few seconds – apparently deciding that whoever it was who was trying to access the coded files was well within their right to do it – entered into the databank. The MI6 logo filled the screen and Benedict felt a surge of electricity running through his body. He had done it! He had hacked the MI6 server. It was not supposed to be possible: the bests of the best hackers all around the world had tried it numerous times and all had failed. And the pre-teen had done it!

 

And now he had everything: mission reports, names and dates about secret spies, agents’ files… _everything_. Benedict particularly held England’s fate in his hands. He didn’t have any bad intentions with it of course – he wasn’t a terrorist. He only wanted to secure his peace for the future with it. So, copying everything into a (modified, highly protected, securely coded…) pen drive, he wiped his traces (while snorting at the incompetence of the IT team of MI6 who still hadn’t realized there was something wrong), and exited the system, making sure nobody could enter again with the help of his computer.

 

He pocketed the pen drive and pulled out a prepared backpack from under his bed. It had been there for months, waiting for its time to be used. Benedict glanced around his room one more time with a bit of melancholy then exited and carefully closed the door behind him.

 

Downstairs he poked his head into Mycroft’s study.

 

“Myc, I’m going to the library.”

 

Mycroft frowned.

 

“You know I don’t like you going there. You can order any book you need to be delivered here.”

 

“Yeah, well, but I need to look up something right now. I don’t have time to wait for a delivery. I need it for a research for a uni project.” – That was not a complete lie either. With all the time he had been spending in his room working, he had needed a valid and official reason to give to Mycroft for being so busy all the time. Thus, after finishing with the regular school-material very early (at 6 years of age) he had started engaging himself in different university courses that could be taken as a correspondence student, earning over the last years more degrees and doctorates than he could or even cared to count. He couldn’t list them if anyone were to ask him to do it to save his life. They soon wouldn’t matter anymore either way.

 

“Can’t you just look it up in the internet then?” – Mycroft actually sounded irritated. He didn’t like being interrupted when he was working, especially not with such mundane things as Benedict wanting to get a book.

 

“Sorry, no. I have tried, but I really do need to use textbooks that are not online. And no, we don’t have them, these are too specialized. I have checked.” – Benedict held his breath as he waited. He knew if Mycroft said ‘no’ now, he’d have to think of some other excuse to be allowed to leave the house soon. He couldn’t just climb out of the window and disappear; not for this. Mycroft had to be aware that he was gone for his plan to work.

 

The oldest Holmes brother sighed.

 

“All right then. But go only to the library, get what you need, and be back as soon as possible. You’re well aware that I don’t like you leaving the house. It’s dangerous out there. There are always people who’d like nothing more than to snatch a family member of mine for blackmailing purposes.”

 

Benedict closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten – and when it didn’t have the desired effect, continued to 20 then 25 and so on… – to keep himself from screaming. It was always the same argument. He was honestly so very tired of hearing it over and over again…

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

“Maybe I should have someone escort you… Anthea could---”

 

No! Definitely not! This was not how it was supposed to work.

 

“No, it’s okay, really. I just go, grab the books, copy the needed pages, and come back. No need to disturb anyone’s work for this. It’ll be fine, I promise.” – He crossed his fingers behind his back for luck and ignored the guilty feeling in his stomach. He needed to do this. He would soon get crazy if he didn’t. It was not him being cruel: it was justified self-defense. Surly, everyone would see it like that, too, if they knew his circumstances.

 

“Oh, okay then. Go and then hurry back.”

 

“Thanks, Myc. You know: you’re not so bad after all!”

 

Mycroft looked baffled. It was a declaration that could be considered some kind of a compliment after all, and the oldest Holmes brother was definitely not used to getting any of that from his two younger siblings.

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind. Good bye, big brother.” – With the last part inaudibly whispered, Benedict exited the house, not to return for a very-very long time.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q - Q**

 

Benedict stood in front of MI6 headquarters, shoulders squared, decision made. He approached the two guards at the gate and declared sternly:

 

“Hello. I’m here to talk with the leader of MI6.”

 

The guards both looked up from their conversation, then – seeing nothing – looked _down_ at him as if he were crazy, one of them actually bursting out in a hysterical laugh, while the other scornfully answered:

 

“Yeah, of course, you pocket-sized kitty. And I am the American president. Nah, get away from here, shrimp, or I’m going to make sure you’ll not be able to come near here or anywhere else for that matter again.”

 

“I’m not a shrimp and I am going to speak to the boss, whether you like it or not, Mr. _Obama_. I have something that might interest her.”

 

“I bet you do, midget… Wait: you said ‘her’? Why do you think the boss is female?” – The guard looked at him suspicious. It was not a commonly known fact that the leader was a woman. MI6 wanted to keep its secrets after all. Of course, there were no secrets that Benedict couldn’t crack if he set his mind to it.

 

“The leader, Olivia Mansfield, has been the head of MI6 for 14 years now and she is---“

 

“Shut up, you pint-sized pup, you hear me! Shut up!” – Interrupted his recital the other guide, all his amusement having faded by now. – “How the hell do you have this information?”

 

“You don’t think I’m going to tell YOU, do you? As I said: I need to speak to the leader and show her something. Like right now if you please, I don’t have all day.” – The boy, with all his 58-inch-tall glory (yeah, he was very small for his age, so what?) squared his bony shoulders and tried to look very authoritative. It didn’t help that the guards were so much bigger than him that he had to squint up against the sun to be able to even look them in the eyes.

 

The guards looked at the scrawny little boy who seemed to be around ten with his mop of slightly curly, wildly flopping, too-long dark brown hair, long and skinny arms and legs that spoke of a recent sudden growth-sprout (not much of an improvement though) and plain, everyday cloths with round, black-rimmed glasses, and whispered among themselves for a few minutes, occasionally looking at him from the corner of their eyes and once even outright pointing at him and gesturing animatedly.

 

Benedict waited patiently. He knew it was pretty unconventional for a kid to appear and demand to talk to the leader but he was also absolutely sure he had managed to awaken their interest and would be let in eventually. He knew he had won as soon as he saw one of the guards take the phone and urgently speak to someone, turning away from him so as not to be able to be overheard. He then turned to the child and announced with a serious tone:

 

“The boss is awaiting you in her office, runt. Someone is coming to escort you to her right away. I’ll need to check you and your backpack though for security reasons.”

 

“I understand.” – He handled them his backpack that only held a few of his cloths and an old bright blue baby blanket – the only thing he had left from the time when his parents had been still alive. Back when everything had been simple and happy… Well, no need to dwell on it now. Or ever…

 

After finding nothing suspicious on his person, Benedict was cleared to not be a security risk and introduced to a kind-looking, dark-haired man called William Tanner and led through the gates into Headquarters.

 

Wow, it was huge! Benedict had never been to a place quite like this before. More people than what he had ever seen at the same time were running up and down urgently, not even sparing a glance at him, all going on with their tasks as if there weren’t a small, out-of-place child walking among them, looking around in awe.

 

“This is the main area where most of the information first runs in. This hectic is normal, don’t worry.” – Explained Mr. Tanner in a friendly manner, holding his hand protectively so as not to lose his tiny charge in the whirlwind of activity. – “Anything of importance that happens in the world is processed and evaluated here in the ‘front line’. Only then can we decide if it is something to worry about or not. If it has to be examined further, it will be designated to the appropriate department to start working on it right away.”

 

“Every data from all over the world? Is that even possible?” – Benedict couldn’t believe how much knowledge and manpower it must require to manage such a flood of intelligence.

 

“Well, yes, everything that is important enough to notice: things that get broadcasted in the news or papers, reports from covered agents and such…” – As is realizing he was telling too much to a boy not even old enough to be out of elementary school, he trailed off and steered Benedict into an elevator. – “This is going to take us right up to M’s office.”

 

“M?”

 

“The boss. That’s how we call her.”

 

“Oh.”

 

They soon arrived and Mr. Tanner knocked on ‘M’s door. Benedict took a deep breath to prepare himself for whatever was to come. It was now or never. He knew he was taking a lot of chances by coming here and actually telling the most dangerous and powerful organization of whole Great Britain he had hacked them but he couldn’t think of any other way to try and get in contact with them, so he had to risk it.

 

“Come in.” – Came the answer from inside and Mr. Tanner opened the door, leading the boy into the room.

 

The office was spacious and elegantly furnished. By the window, behind the huge mahogany desk a rather small woman with grey hair was sitting and sizing him up with calculating eyes. Benedict could virtually feel the weight of her stare.

 

“Ah, so, you’re the child who claims to have something that would interest me, aren’t you?”

 

“Ahm…  Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Well, it ought to be good, you see, my guards are not in habit of letting in complete strangers from the street and I also don’t like wasting my time. So, you really think that what you have to show me is worth my attention?”

 

Benedict was certain he would faint right then and there but then he felt a small nudge from Mr. Tanner on his back and it gave him the courage he needed.

 

“Yes, ma’am, I am absolutely sure it is worth your time.”

 

“Well, then, please, do take a seat.” – She said, pointing at a chair in front of her desk. – “Thank you, Bill, that would be all for now. I’ll call you when it’s time to escort this young man back out.” (So, at least she wasn’t planning already to arrest him for intrusion… Good to know.)

 

Mr. Tanner seemed to want to protest against being sent out and Benedict didn’t like staying alone with that mysterious – and admittedly slightly frightening – woman at all either, but there was nothing to do about it now. He couldn’t afford to be a whiny child if he wanted to be taken serious. ‘Bill’ nodded and left, closing the door behind him. ‘M’ regarded him with growing curiosity for a while then urged him to begin his explanation.

 

“I find your security system to be quite vulnerable against outside attacks.” – He declared simply, quite _in medias res_.

 

‘M’ raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn’t seem affected at all by his revelation.

 

“Oh, yes? And how so?”

 

“It can be hacked.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because I did it.” – There it is. He had said it. Now to see what that would mean for him… Either respect and possibly even a job, or a lifetime in jail… - “And I can prove it to you.” – He added, pulling the pen drive out of his pocket and putting it on the table in front of her.

 

The leader of MI6 didn’t say anything, just took the pen drive and studied it carefully.

 

“You know, if you’re lying and this is actually a virus that’s going to invade my computer upon inserting it, you’ll not achieve anything. We have backups of all the files that cannot be affected from here.”

 

“I could have infected all your computers when I was in the system a couple of hours ago if I had wanted to. I didn’t and I don’t want to do it now. I wouldn’t have come here if I had bad intentions; I’m not stupid, I know I’m in your mercy now and you can have me arrested with just one flick to the panic button on the inside of your desk anytime you decide so.”

 

“Actually, panic buttons on the desks are totally outdated. I have one under my left foot built inside the floor though.” – She shrugged nonchalantly and inserted the pen drive.

 

Instantly, she could see all the data he had saved from their computers. Very secret and _dangerous_ data. For the first time, Benedict could see the fear in her eyes.

 

“I told you it was important.” – He deadpanned.

 

“Who else has seen it?” – Managed to get out the leader.

 

“Nobody.”

 

“WHO ELSE, boy?”

 

“Nobody! I downloaded it and then destroyed all evidence from my computer. Nobody can use it to learn anything. And then I came here right away. This is the only copy – you may keep it. I don’t want to have anything to do with it. I don’t intend to use it.” – He quickly assured her before she ordered to have him executed. – “I just wanted you to know that your security is abysmal.”

 

“Who are you working for?”

 

“I’m not working for anyone. I’m a lone wolf.”

 

“Who sent you?”

 

“I came on my own accord. Nobody even knows I’m here.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

“I am Benedict Dominic Holmes. I was born on 14th October, 1999 and I live here in London. My parents are dead and my brothers are---“

 

“Mycroft Holmes is your brother?” – She asked, sounding slightly terrified.

 

“And Sherlock Holmes, yes. But as I said: none of them know I’m here or that I hacked into your system. They don’t know much about me at all as a matter of fact.”

 

“Nobody can keep secrets from Mycroft Holmes; it’s absolutely impossible. He is the Government himself.” – Stated ‘M’ as if it were a solid fact. It probably was, but…

 

“I’ve managed it just fine for years – Don’t forget: I’m a Holmes myself. I possess the same genes and talents. Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock know I’ve been hacking and working with computer codes for most of my life. None of them know I’ve come here or that I don’t intend to return home ever.”

 

“And why not?”

 

“I want to finally gain control over my own life. Mycroft has me practically locked up, trying to keep me safe from his (probably mostly imaginary) enemies. I can’t take it anymore.”

 

“And what do you intend to do then?”

 

“I don’t know yet. I’ll just have to wait and see what my options are.” – Lied the boy. In reality, he knew very well what he wanted but the woman had to offer it herself, he was not going to ask for it. If there were something the boy valued above anything, then it was his pride.

 

“Well, you do know that what you have done is a serious crime, don’t you?”

 

“I’m aware of the fact, yes.”

 

“You also know there can be dire consequences?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And are you not afraid of the consequences?”

 

“I have not much to lose. So no, not really.”

 

‘M’ looked at him sternly.

 

“Do you think you could improve our ‘abysmal’ security system so that not even someone as good as you can hack us?” – She asked slowly, deliberately quoting his earlier words.

 

“I’m absolutely certain I could. I’ve been doing it for years for companies and none of them have experienced any problems ever since. Besides: I am told to be the best.” – It might have sounded a bit like boasting but well… it was the truth.

 

“Well, you certainly know how to make an impressive first impression, don’t you?” – She looked amused.

 

The boy shrugged.

 

“I never do things halfway.”

 

“I see… In that case: would you like to come and work for us?”

 

“YES!” – Benedict couldn’t believe it! Was this real?

 

“But mind you: you would have to change your name and lose everything you have called your life until now. Nobody can know about your relation to Holmes. He is a feared man and they would all think you’re only permitted to be here because of his influence. Everyone would think he has bought your way in. He, on the other hand, would very probably try to take you away if he ever found you here. I can’t imagine him being happy about MI6 recruiting a family member, as he wouldn’t come to us either, when he had the chance.”

 

Benedict tried not to look too surprised at that. He’d had no idea his brother had been invited to MI6. No wonder he was so wary about the organization then… But what would he have done here, anyway? He was certainly not agent-material, with his refusal to do any legwork. Heck, he didn’t even like going out into the garden for anything, let alone work in the field!

 

He then realized ‘M’ had been trying to catch his attention for some time with a question.

 

“So, boy, would you consent to a new identity and to everything else I just told you about?”

 

“Of course. I already lost everything I used to call life when I was two and my parents died. As I said: I need to get out of there, and I’m well aware of the fact that it’s not possible with him knowing where I am. You’d have to promise me not to tell him either.”

 

“Are you kidding? I’ll be glad not to have to talk to him at all, especially if I’ll be the one hiding his baby brother. So, if you’re really sure…?”

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

“Then I have a plan but it would be very drastic and would probably hurt your family very much. You have to be really very decided about your intention, because once we start it, there’s no turning back, boy.”

 

There was no hesitation. He couldn’t afford it. Not at this point.

 

“I’ll do what is necessary.” – Benedict didn’t enjoy hurting his brothers but he had suspected it would be necessary.

 

“All right then, here’s what we’re going to do…”

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

They had agreed to fake Benedict’s death by orchestrating a hit and run with one of the unidentifiable company cars, that would be driven by an agent. They had also realized they would have to do it on the same day, given the fact that already a lot of time had passed since the boy had gone to the ‘library’ and Mycroft was bound to have people start searching for him soon.

 

‘So, that’s it.’ – Thought Benedict, as he was standing in front of one of the huge screens in a room called ‘Q-Branch area’, watching his ‘death’ happen, broadcasted by the camera in the car that had been chosen to ‘kill’ him. M had assured him that this agent, strangely named ‘007’ was a master of his profession, and it would be a nice and clean job done very quickly and efficiently. The boy didn’t want to know what ‘nice and clean’ meant in relation of a faked deadly accident, and also decided he would never ever want to meet an agent that did things like that for a living and was even proud of it.

 

Anyway, from now on, he wouldn’t be Benedict Dominic Holmes anymore. He was allowed to keep the name ‘Benedict’ at least, even though it was not very common, but also not too rare to become instantly suspicious. That’s the only fragment of his old life he would keep though.

 

His coat had been taken, along with his backpack, the latter emptied from his clothes and packed with a few books about genealogy, the latest university specialization he had been taking recently. He’d even had to slice his arm a bit so that he could use his own blood on them, leaving something for the forensics as well. These were going to be the evidences for his identity, hopefully solid enough to convince both his brothers who were good in noticing small, for everyone else mostly invisible, details.

 

The boy felt like he really was dying a little bit as he watched the people scream and the ambulance (also MI6 issued, of course) arrive a few minutes after the ‘accident’. Then the car had to disappear and its feed was instantly replaced by BBC’s live reports about a small boy around 10 (why did everyone always say he looked so much younger?) instantly dying on spot and the most probably drunken and/or even drugged driver not stopping to help. Authorities were going to be looking for them with high intensity, they promised.

 

A few minutes later the reporter announced the news about the boy’s presumed identity being the famous and ambitious politician’s, Mycroft Holmes’ little brother: Benedict Dominic Holmes, explaining that a more certain statement would only follow after the autopsy.

 

Not long after that he could see in the background both his brothers (‘God, even Sherlock has reappeared from God-knows-where for that and Mycroft had left the house for something other than a political conference or the Diogenes Club!?’) standing at the scene, looking totally ashen and lost at the wreckages, trying to make sense of the happenings and probably not believing their own eyes.

 

Benedict didn’t realize he had tears running down his cheeks until he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder in a comforting manner. It was Mr. Tanner.

 

“Having second thoughts?” – He asked the boy compassionately.

 

Benedict shook his head.

 

“No. I had to do it. I just wish I didn’t have to hurt them that much…”

 

“I’m sorry, my boy.”

 

“Do you think I’m being very cruel? That I shouldn’t have done it?”

 

“Well, did you feel it was necessary?” – Inquired Tanner.

 

“Yes, of course I did, I wouldn’t have chosen such a drastic move if I hadn’t thought it was absolutely the only chance.”

 

“And have you changed your mind?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then that’s your answer: you did what you had to. And I’m sure you’ll see them again one day.”

 

The boy looked hopeful.

 

“You really think so?”

 

“Of course I do, son.”

 

Benedict nodded and turned back only to see that the broadcast had ended. He remained there, looking at the blank screen for a long time after that as the Q-Branch personnel went back to their respective tasks around him, already forgetting the scheme they had just witnessed.

 

It was nothing out of ordinary for them; they made people disappear all the time, reinventing them as a completely new person with ease. For Benedict though, it was much more than that. It was losing himself.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

His ‘funeral’ was held two days later. Benedict had bribed one of the Q-Branch employees who had free that day to go with a small camera attached to his suit so that the boy could see and hear the ceremony. He was totally aware of the irony of him attending his own funeral but not knowing anything about it would have been so much worse.

 

It was a rainy day, not unusual for late August, and it mirrored his mood just fine. Not a lot of people were there, only a few visitors, most of whom Benedict had never seen in his life. Probably Mycroft’s people, he decided. He didn’t have friends after all.

 

Mycroft was standing with his most loyal personal secretary, Anthea beside him, holding an umbrella above both of their heads. He was clad in a very expensive looking black suit and stood stock-still, with a stony expression on his face and eyes hidden in the shadows. He didn’t move during the whole time the priest was talking and didn’t offer to hold a eulogy for his deceased little brother.

 

Benedict couldn’t understand why they had bothered to arrange for a priest in the first place – none of them was religious after all. As a matter of fact, the boy had never even set foot into a church in his whole life. For three genius brothers who were always looking for proof of everything instead of just accepting facts as they were told, and then doubting even their own discoveries, believing in something like God that could neither be seen nor heard was out of question. He suspected it was meant to make up for the fact that his brothers themselves couldn’t say anything about him at all. The pre-teen wondered if they had at least by now belatedly realized how little they had actually known about him.

 

Sherlock was a total mess. Not surprising for someone with his lifestyle of course, but still, it was heart-wrenching to see him in his too big, rumpled cloths, thinner than ever, slumped in a chair half-drunk (or even high, who knew…) and _sobbing_ relentlessly. Benedict always felt a little bit closer to his middle brother but he hadn’t expected him to be that grief-stricken about him. They hadn’t seen each other for over a year, since Sherlock last set foot into the manor just to instantly get into a shouting match with Mycroft about how he had wanted to be left alone and that had ended with him disappearing into the night. The littlest brother had tried more than once to get in contact with him but to no avail: Sherlock apparently knew how to hide if he didn’t want to be found.

 

To the boy’s surprise there was someone standing beside Sherlock, trying to console him: a graying but still young-looking man with a long coat. He seemed to be doing his best to keep Sherlock under an umbrella and not let him sink to the floor from his chair at the same time, mostly succeeding. The child didn’t know who this man was but was infinitely grateful that he was there for his brother and hoped to every higher power that might ever have existed that he would be able to help him get himself together again and not sink even deeper into a world of darkness, drugs and alcohol.

 

The ceremony was quickly over and the people soon left, glad to be able to get into their cars and turn on the heating with full force. Mycroft stepped closer to the grave and touched the cross that held his lost little brother’s name. He said something but it was too quiet to hear, and then without a backward glance at Sherlock, left with Anthea following him. Lastly also Sherlock was led away by his loyal friend and the graveyard remained silent and empty.

 

The attending Q-Branch employee turned off the camera and the mic but small boy had a feeling this sight would follow him into his nightmares for years to come.

 

And how right he was.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

_Now_

 

More than a year has gone by since he had ‘died’ in that car accident. He had lost his name and his brothers back then but had also gained a new family somewhere along the way. The now fourteen-year-old (still very skinny and small) boy could proudly say he was the new mascot of the whole MI6, with M, Q (which, he had quickly learned stood for Quartermaster and was the alias of old Major Boothroyd who currently held that title) and of course Bill alternating in the role of some kind of mismatched set of parents for him.

 

Neither of them had own children which is not so unusual in this line of work but Bill used to be married. His wife had left him when it had turned out he couldn’t have children. She had found it more important to have a complete family than to stand by her husband upon learning such a painful fact, so she had quickly demanded divorce and searched for ‘someone who isn’t a complete failure and disappointment like me’ – Bill’s own words. Benedict hated the woman with vengeance without ever having had the misfortune to meet her for what she had done to the most kind-hearted, helpful and affectionate man he had ever met, but Bill had only said to that statement when Benedict had once admitted to this sentiment that he could understand her and wouldn’t have wanted to ruin her chance at a happy motherhood anyway. If she had ever had children after that with a new partner, Benedict didn’t know, nor did he really care about it.

 

Either way, Bill would definitely have made a great father. He was great with children: patient and sensitive; and applied this skill to his surrogate son ‘Ben’ with so much love and caring that the boy sometimes even managed to forget for a while that he was actually an orphan and not a ‘Tanner’.

 

M and Q were somewhere between parents and grandparents. Their ages predestinated them for the latter but their fondness combined with occasional well-timed sternness was more that of a parent than anything else.

 

Benedict had a home (and an own room) in all of their houses and was welcome anytime anywhere. He even had all the keys and the permission to come and go as he pleased. He spent most of his days in Tanner’s flat but was a very regular guest by M and Q, too. That hadn’t changed a bit just because he had an own flat now, maybe only that now sometimes it was Bill going over to him for the night or M and Q dining with him there, and not only the other way around.

 

And of course Headquarters had become a home for him as well, especially Q-Branch, to which he had quite naturally gravitated from day one and had never left ever since. All the employees respected and liked him in a way Benedict wasn’t used to being accepted, and had shoved him that being among people really wasn’t as horrible as Mycroft (and sometimes even Sherlock) had made it out to be.

 

His opinion was often asked and accepted, his ideas seriously contemplated and even his projects were mostly totally funded, thanks to Q and M’s recommendations that they always sent along with his draft plans to the higher ups in the Government.

 

Thus, he was allowed to develop new equipment himself, work on improving gadgets and for the last half a year or so he had even been let into the shooting range to try out some of the guns! Of course, at first everyone had been very worried upon seeing a mere child with a pistol in his hands and had thought it was bound to end in a catastrophe but then all of them – including Benedict himself – had had to recognize his indisputable talent when it came to aiming at and meeting the target in every possible way. (It didn’t seem to matter whether he was using his right- or left hand, or if he was standing in front of the target, a little bit to the side, or even having his back to it… Moving targets weren’t a problem and once he had even tried – and succeeded – shooting with his eyes closed, using his hearing for determining which way the target had been moving. It had been so much fun!)

 

After a lot of practice, Benedict now matched – according to everyone who had watched him shoot – the marksmanship of any of the Double-Os, which was a great compliment, since they were considered the best.

 

He didn’t have any other option but to believe those who were stating that, for he had never met any of the agents that tended to give a headache to Q and his second in command (called ‘R’) and make them irritated and grumpy for half a day after having to deal with them. Benedict thought he must be very lucky that he didn’t have to socialize with those madmen, for he was sure his patience would be even shorter than that of the adults’. So now every time he knew an agent was to appear in Q-Branch, he made sure to not be anywhere nearby.

 

He only had to look out for nine agents’ schedules for that (actually, right now only eight, for 007 had gone MIA a few months ago), so it wasn’t very difficult, really. Neither of them had ever stepped into Q-Branch uninvited, so no surprises there.

 

And by the rare occasions when one of the agents was visiting, he could, among other things, pay a visit to M, go to talk to Bill or even go out to the main gate and irritate the guards just for the fun of it. Both of them had turned out to be much more fun than he would have thought after their initial meeting 1,5 years ago. They were grumpy and witty, and knew more synonyms for making fun of his small size than anyone else he had ever met. Oddly, he didn’t find it insulting at all. He just smiled fondly every time one of them called him ‘cub’, ‘squirt’, ‘small fry’, ‘snotnose’, ‘sapling’ or something similar. He had even started writing a list about all the expressions – it never hurt to learn new things, did it?

 

The only one who didn’t really appear to like Benedict was R, because he was always looking at the boy with a glare which indicated that he probably, for some reason or another, wasn’t as thrilled as the others to have him around. But he had never hurt the boy, nor had he really talked to him more than a few – necessary – words about work-related topics, so it didn’t really matter either way. Benedict knew he wasn’t always going to be liked by everyone, and anyway: every person had the right for their own opinion. As long as it didn’t influence their work, it was perfectly fine with him.

 

All in all: life was good for the young teen. The only thing missing (aside from his parents of course, a sad fact that was not going to change ever) were his brothers. It had come as a surprise to him when he had realized he was actually missing their constant banter, listening to their rude comments and having to put up with blunt deductions from the craziest hints ever, like the state of the boy’s pullover or the way his eyes were shining. He wondered whether they were still thinking about him…

 

He had obviously kept an eye on them all that time, so he knew they were both all right – even Sherlock who seemed to have crawled out of the deep hole he had fallen in before, had rented a flat in London and he was now sharing it with a doctor who was most probably one of the few people he could call a real friend. There was also the man from the funeral, still regularly talking to him and checking up on him. The boy had researched him and learnt that he was a very promising Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard, named Gregory Lestrade. There was also a new face quite often popping up with relation of Sherlock: Molly Hooper, a woman with shoulder-long brown hair and a slight figure who was working in the local morgue. Apparently, Sherlock now frequented both places and was calling himself a self-appointed title of ‘consulting detective’. That meant he was looking for cold cases nobody wanted or could solve and worked on them as long as it was needed to close the files. It was a super way for him to use his unusual talents with others profiting from it as well. (Though the teen didn’t doubt it must still have been very irritating for anyone to put up with Sherlock’s eccentric manner.)

 

The only case he had never managed to solve was the original one that had given him the idea to start that profession in the first place: finding his little brother’s murderer.

 

Benedict knew his middle brother had been trying to find out the driver’s identity ever since that fateful evening, with the help of his Detective Inspector friend to get access to the investigation documents, and with Molly Hooper’s assistance in the morgue, since Benedict had been allegedly brought there for being identified. Of course, the small group hadn’t stood a chance, seeing that there wasn’t really a case at all, but since this seemed to be just the right push Sherlock had needed to find himself a purpose other than wasting away on drugs, the boy felt he really couldn’t shame himself for it. He had been trying to help his brother before… who would have thought he had had to die to finally manage it?

 

Mycroft was doing his own investigations but had been – of course – just as unsuccessful. Rumor was, nobody had seen his older brother without the umbrella he had held onto like a lifeline during the funeral ever since. The boy could believe it: after their parents’ death, Mycroft had refused to ever take off the necklace he had gotten from them for getting his first diploma at the age of 17. He kept it hidden under his shirts of course, and probably nobody but his brothers knew about it, but still: ‘Myc’ was in reality much more sentimental than what he let others see him to be. 

 

One good thing had come out of this whole mess for the two older Holmeses, too: Mycroft had now realized that his way of trying to govern his brothers’ lives had not done them any good, so he now had a complete different approach to Sherlock, which seemed to be working somewhat better. Still a meddling old fool of course, but now at least his good intendions were more apparent and his methods more subtle. Their relationship had improved in the last year or so and now they were at least on talking terms with each other, communicating semi-regularly again.

 

Benedict thought that maybe it was time to contact them soon, let them know he was alive and well, tell them about being emancipated and try to explain his reasons behind his actions, hoping they would forgive him…

 

It was a good plan with only one catch: he didn’t have any idea when and how he should go about it.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

It turned out, he didn’t need to actively arrange a meeting, because in the end, it was fate doing it for him.

 

It all started with Bill inviting him to their favorite restaurant.

 

It was a plain pizzeria, really, but both of them liked it very much and came whenever they had the time to spare. They usually spent the time talking about anything they could think of from Benedict’s ideas for future Q-Branch projects to Bill’s stories about his childhood and family. The boy liked it best when Bill reminisced about funny situations they got into with his older sister Rachel as children. The boy already felt like he actually knew the woman for all the stories he had heard about her, even though she lived very far away – somewhere in Italy – and hadn’t been to England for years, much to the regret of her brother who because of that didn’t really get to know his two nieces.

 

In turn, while Benedict had never told him about who his brothers were but of course, he still had some tales he could tell anyway without mentioning names. Bill found his brothers hilarious and urged the teen to get in contact with them again now that he couldn’t be taken away from them against his will anymore.

 

So now Benedict was sitting at their usual table, sipping his favorite tea (Earl Grey), and waiting for Bill who had gotten an urgent phone call and had to go out for a little distance from strangers so he could talk about business matters in private, without the danger of being overheard.

 

The boy heard the door of the restaurant open and glanced over to see if it was Bill coming back finally so that they could place their order. He already knew he wanted to have the Bolognese Pizza with extra ketchup on it.  

 

He immediately saw though that it was not Bill, but someone he knew very well: his brother Sherlock, accompanied by a shorter, blond-haired man.

 

‘Oh, shit!’ – Thought Benedict and for lack of any better idea, quickly slipped from the chair under the table. It was just his luck of course that Sherlock and the man – probably his flatmate, the doctor – had to choose the table right next to his to sit down.

 

Benedict knew he had to think of something very soon because for one, the tablecloth was only partially hiding him and so someone was bound to realize a boy sitting on the floor soon and secondly, Bill was going to come back in a few minutes and start looking for him as well.

 

He was trying very hard to come up with a plan to get out of this situation with his pride relatively unscratched and the peace of the country still intact, when one of the waiters (Bobby, a twenty-something boy with wild red hair and freckles who had always brought an extra big portion of tiramisu for him without ever having been asked to do it) crouched down to his level and worriedly asked:

 

“Hey, is everything all right, Benny?” (Oh, yeah, and he was calling him ‘Benny’…)

 

“Ahm… yes, yes, everything’s fine, I just… ahm… dropped my fork I think.”

 

“You don’t have to worry about it. Come out, I’ll pick it up and then bring a new one for you.”

 

“No, no, thanks, I guess I was wrong. There’s nothing here. Ahm… I’ll just…” – Benedict looked around in search for inspiration for a believable excuse to stay there just a little bit longer. – “I think I might get a little dizzy if I stand up too quickly. I’m going to do it slowly. You don’t have to stay here and wait for me, I’ll be fine. Thanks, Bobby!”

 

“If you don’t feel well, I’m not going to leave you here. Come on, I’ll help you up.” – And with that, Bobby pulled him out from under the table with ease to stand right in front of his brother and his friend, both of them looking at the scene mildly interested.

 

Up until the second that Sherlock recognized him. Then his expression turned first to surprise, then doubt, later to understanding and finally to real, cold fury. He jumped up and pointed at his ‘resurrected’ little brother with a violently shaking hand.

 

“You! You! YOU!” – He didn’t seem to be able to get any other words out. He just stood there even paler than usual.

 

His friend hurried to steady him when he started to sway but Sherlock batted his hands away and with a last glance to the youngest brother, positively fled the restaurant.

 

The man looked at the boy questioningly, silently asking him just what the hell happened. Benedict felt he had to say something to fill the uncomfortable silence.

 

“I’m his brother.” – Was all the explanation he could give.

 

“WHAT? You mean there’s THREE of you?”

 

“It would seem so...”

 

“But, I don’t understand, he had never mentioned having another brother.” – Sherlock’s flatmate shrugged helplessly.

 

“He thought I was dead…”

 

“You mean he…? Oh, Jesus!” – And with that, he ran after Sherlock, leaving the boy standing in the middle of the restaurant with everyone gaping at him accusingly. (‘Great, we’ll never be able to come here again!’)

 

That’s the view Bill returned to a few seconds later.

 

“Sorry, it took so long. Hey, what were these two men doing running out like that? Did something happen?” – He took in the scene then. – “What?”

 

Benedict grabbed his arm and started to drag him out onto the street, waving an apologetic goodbye to Bobby.

 

“Come on, let’s go.”

 

“We’re not going to eat?”

 

“Not right now. I need to go somewhere. I’m going to explain it to you later, all right?”

 

And just like that he raced away, hoping to reach the Holmes manor before something very ugly could happen, leaving a very confused Tanner blinking after him.

 

**Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q – Q**

 

He could already hear voices as he was nearing his childhood house. From afar, it sounded like Sherlock was rounding on an unsuspecting Mycroft with his friend trying to mediate between the two of them.

 

They must have taken a taxi to get here so quickly, while Benedict had been running and waiting for the metros the whole way.

_“You knew! I’m sure you knew!”_

_“What are you talking about?”_

_“Don’t pretend to not understand! You KNEW! How could you do that to me?”_

_“Sherlock, please, don’t work yourself up this much. Mycroft, listen, it’s just that we met---“_

_“YOU KNEW!!!”_

 

“It’s enough! – Shouted Benedict immediately after entering the house and founding the three men in the middle of a shouting match, with the two Holmes seemingly ready to attack each other any moment, the third man standing between them to act as a shield.

 

All heads turned towards him at once, with Sherlock still looking murderous, his friend a little bit relieved to have someone other than himself to try and calm those two down and Mycroft as if he had seen a ghost.

 

The latter stuttered probably for the first time in his life.

 

“Benedict, what? I… I… How?”

 

“Now, THAT’s what I’m talking about, you great---“

 

“He didn’t know, Sherlock. He really didn’t.” – Tried to explain Benedict abruptly, before they could continue their argument. – “It was all my doing and nobody knew about it. I’m sorry; I didn’t intend to hurt you so much. I just… I needed to get away for a while.”

 

“What?” – Mycroft’s face started to redden with fury. – “You ‘needed to get away for a while’, heh? Well, let me tell you something, little brother, if you needed to go away for a while, you could have told me so, not just run and pretend to die a horrible death!”

 

“No, in reality, I couldn’t have just told you so. As a matter of fact: I tried. I had been trying for years.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” – Countered the oldest Holmes dismissingly.

 

“Oh, but I might have an idea.” – Spitted Sherlock maliciously. – “It’s exactly the same thing I was trying to make you understand before giving up and leaving myself. You were controlling both of us like a tyrant!”

 

“I was trying to do what’s best for you!”

 

“You crazy---“

 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” – Placated Sherlock’s friend. – “What matters is that everyone is here and fine. Right? Now you can talk things over – calmly, mind you! And then everything is going to be fantastic…” – Even as he said it, he seemed to realize it was too fairytale-like to be true and trailed off uncertainly.

 

“It’s true it doesn’t matter anymore. I did what I thought was necessary at that time. I went and got myself a life. A life I am happy with and that I want to live. Making my own decisions.”

 

“You’re still a child, officially under my care.” – Pointed out Mycroft.

 

“No, in reality, I’m not. One: I’m officially dead. Second: I’m emancipated. No more influence, Myc.”

 

“WHAT?”

 

“And when were you going to tell us? Were you going to at all?” – Interrupted Sherlock, sounding suspiciously tearful. Benedict felt horrible. That was not how he had imagined the big reunion.

 

“Of course I was. I wanted to talk to you soon.”

 

“Ah, yes? And when if I may ask?” – Inquired Mycroft sarcastically. – “Sometime in this millennium, I hope?”

 

“Soon! I would have done it this year for sure!”

 

“This year? It’s March, Benedict!”

 

“I know that, Sherlock, I’m not the one who has problems remembering the date!”

 

“No, you just seem to have problems remembering your FAMILY, little brother!”

 

And it went on and on like that, until all the existing (and some very creative, newly invented) insults had been spoken and all three of them were out of breath.

 

The Holmes brothers were currently quiet, anger gone, replaced by total exhaustion. Mycroft was sitting comfortably in his favorite armchair, Sherlock was lying on the couch and Benedict lay sprawled out on the soft, luxurious rug in the middle of the room, looking up at the ceiling, just like he used to do as a child. There was something very domestic about this picture, the young teen decided.

 

Their guest, who had given up trying to make peace between the raging brothers, had fled into the kitchen to escape the war around an hour or so ago. He now, probably encouraged by the extended silence, carefully poked his head into the sitting room as if to check if the coast was clear.

 

“Hey, are you done shouting? I’m afraid one of the neighbors might have called the police…” – He said, only half joking.

 

“Who cares?” – Answered the three at the same time, then all burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

 

“So, it would seem we’re still thinking the same way.” – Observed Sherlock.

 

“Some things never change, I guess.” – Said Benedict.

 

“While some other things definitely do.” – Pointed out Mycroft.

 

“Yeah. Some things do. Hey, Sherlock, you haven’t even introduced us!”

 

“Whatever… Benedict, this is Doctor John Watson. My blogger and flatmate. John, this is our newly resurrected little brother, Benedict Domi---“

 

“Just Benedict. It’s nice to meet you Doctor Watson.”

 

John shook the boy’s hand automatically.

 

“Just John, please. Pleasure. Though I must admit: the idea that now three Holmeses are going to terrorize London is a bit frightening.” – Benedict wisely chose not to disclose the fact, that he hadn’t left London in the first place, so there wouldn’t be anything new about three of them living in the same city. – “And it’s creepy how similar you look to Sherlock…”

 

It was Mycroft who had a ready answer, as if it hadn’t been the first time he’d had to explain it to someone.

 

“They both take after Father: lean figure, dark brown curls that can’t seem to be tamed and light-colored eyes. Though I must admit: Father never was this thin, rather more the muscular-type. And he was tall and athletic like Sherlock. Benedict is way too small, somewhat weak – yes, you are, protesting won’t change it, brother dear! – and very-very skinny. He’s always been like that. Prone to getting sick regularly as well of course. That has probably something to do with him being a very premature child… While I look like Mommy: she was a plump woman with brown-red hair and grey-blue eyes. But I’m glad to say that I have at least inherited Father’s height.”

 

Benedict turned to Sherlock and whispered hopefully into his ear so that only he could hear:

 

“Or maybe he was just adopted…”

 

Sherlock shook his head almost sadly.

 

“No such luck. I checked.”

 

“You actually looked it up? Really?”

 

“Yeah, some years ago, when---“

 

“What are you two whispering about?” – Cut in Mycroft, looking suspicious.

 

“Nothing!” – Chimed both simultaneously as they tried to repress their smirks.

 

After that, John went home to rest (‘I have only ever felt this kind of tiredness in Afghanistan!’) while the two younger brothers stayed at Mycroft’s for a few hours, talking about a lot of things with the exception of Benedict’s life in the last 1,5 years. The both older Holmeses seemed to sense it was too early to ask anything about it; the boy wouldn’t disclose any information for now anyway.

 

Even though the hurt and anger hadn’t disappeared by the end of the day completely, they had managed to settle their emotions and had found mutual respect for each other.

 

When Sherlock and Benedict were leaving, they all promised they would keep in touch from now on and nobody would disappear again. They even agreed to have dinner together in a few days to get reacquainted with each other again. (Benedict suggested his favorite restaurant to show Bobby they were still alive after the scene they had created that day. Sherlock supported the idea but Mycroft declared there was no way he, as the British Government himself, could go to a plain pizzeria just like that, so they had to decide to think of something else.)

 

Benedict thought that he might reveal by the next time they spoke that he had an own flat now, and maybe – just maybe – even invite his brothers to visit him to have the planned dinner there.


End file.
